


Not Like Him

by Saffiaan



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Gen, I don't know what to tag this with, I love Fedya too much, Maria misses her kid, Mother-Son Relationship, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 07:58:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14444826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saffiaan/pseuds/Saffiaan
Summary: Maria Ivanovna Dolokhova worries about her son as he fights in the war against the French.





	Not Like Him

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story is a variation (and translation) of the song it was inspired by 'Niet Zoals Zij' (Not Like Her) from the Dutch musical 'Het Meisje met het Rode Haar' (The Girl with the Red Hair). I hope you enjoy!

Maria Ivanovna Dolokhova stood at the dirty window in her kitchen. One of the glass panes had broken during the night, no doubt caused by a reckless youth on the street. They didn’t have the money to replace it though. Her son had been sending her money once a month. However, that was exactly the reason she was standing at that window now, watching the sun rise in the early morning. That month there had been no money. More importantly, there had been no letter. Of course, there had also not been a letter informing her of her son’s capture or… defeat. But really, that was little consolation. Maria Ivanovna did not consider herself to be a weak woman. She did not deny the possibility of her son’s death simply because she did not wish it to be true. No, she was not a weak woman.

She also knew she was nothing like her Fyodor. Oh, she knew he wasn’t necessarily the kindest of men nor the best. But that didn’t matter. He had a good heart and a strong soul. He was brave and, maybe most important of all, he was her son. And even when the cruelness this world had forced upon him slid on his face, she could still see the little boy he had once been. She could see him run through the market place, chasing a stray cat as she was buying their groceries. She could see him as a young teen, making friends and getting himself in trouble. She could see him as a young man, telling her he would get somewhere in life.

If only she could see him now. But there was nothing but the snow outside of her window, steadily falling down, harder with every second. She wondered if it snowed where Fedya was too. If he was cold. He wouldn’t complain. He’d snort at those complaining. She knew him well enough to know that for sure. If he still had the energy to snort. If he still had the breath to snort. Oh, he was stronger than she would ever be, but even Fedya wouldn’t be able to snort if he was too busy trying not to faint, with taking an extra breath.

She wished she could be there for him, even if he would say it wasn’t necessary. It was all she ever could do really. Be there for him. Stand right beside him and support him as he made friends that never would do that. Friends made because he had to if he ever wanted to get somewhere, not because he really wanted to.

She felt as if that support had both lost its importance and increased in importance since the war. There were simply things a mother’s support couldn’t improve in any way. She couldn’t make it stop nor could she fight. She couldn’t even really be there. All there was left to do for her was to read his letters and reply to them; describe to him the most mundane things of life, as he had asked of her one day. But maybe that helped. Maybe her letters were to him as his were to her. An anchor. Something to hold on to.

And then there had been that brief period when he had been home. Maria Ivanovna would never forget that first night. The first night she heard those screams, when she held him in a tight embrace as he cried. Fedya never used to cry. He never told her what had caused it, though she could guess. Come morning he didn’t talk about it and she didn’t ask. She also didn’t comment when he got himself drunk that evening. It didn’t matter. He still screamed and she still held him. She had done so every night.  
Who would hold him now? Would it even matter, when his nightmares were the very reality of the day that followed them? She would hold him in her mind, every night, but she doubted that was much help. She would hold him when he came back at least. If he came back.

Her mind wandered back to the vision of snow. Of men huddled around a dying fire. Of bandaged heads and limbs. Bloodstains on clothes that didn’t get out without a thorough washing. Mud on faces that no one bothered to remove. She could picture Fedya sitting there. Talking with someone else. Closing a hole in his uniform. Maybe even writing a letter. Maybe he hadn’t had time to write one yet. It wasn’t hard to imagine. He was probably busy. After all, the French didn’t wait because someone had to write their mother.

Maria Ivanovna huffed, the sound seemed extremely loud in the otherwise quiet room. It would serve the French right to lose this stupid war. If only because they let a mother worry. She pulled the shawl she was wearing closer, but it did little to fight the cold coming from the broken window pane. The sun had fully risen now. It must have been hours since Maria Ivanovna had left her bed. Well, she would probably have to wait for hours to come.

Just as she turned around to do something, there was a knock at the door. A feeling of dread settled in Maria Ivanovna’s stomach. She didn’t get visitors. She didn’t know how deaths were reported to the families. At least, not the deaths of officers. But she expected it was something like this. A knock at the door and a formal message delivered by an uncaring soldier. Or maybe it could be a friend of Fedya’s. She made her way to the front door, her hand lay still on the knob for a little while. No, she was not a weak woman. She also wasn’t ready for this.

As she opened the door, the first thing she saw was a green uniform. So it was true then. But as she looked up, she recognized the man wearing it. Not as an uncaring soldier or a mere friend, but her son himself. He had a cut on his cheek and looked worn out, but it was him all the same. Without uttering a word, she threw her arms around him and could only convince herself this was real when she felt his arms enclose her.

It was still snowing and the window was still broken. But her Fedya had come home and for now that was all she could possibly hope for.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written any stories for way too long, so I'd absolutely love to hear what you think of it!


End file.
